Wolf

by Kelly Oliver

  When she stuffed her computer into her book-bag, it got hung up on something. Crap. It was Alexander’s paper crammed into the bottom of her bag. She’d been carrying it around for the last week, but still hadn’t read it. Tomorrow. First thing. She promised herself.

  She jogged the mile and a half back to campus, then took the stairs of Brentano two at a time. Panting, she dug through her clothes and found one clean shirt, a royal-blue western snap-front with a black embroidered yoke. She pulled off her t-shirt and jeans, and then sniffed her right armpit. Phew. She recoiled at the pungent odor of her hairy armpits. She grabbed her toiletries bag and then peeked out into the hall. In her underwear, she glanced around as she crept downstairs to the bathroom. She scrubbed her armpits using hand-soap and paper-towels, and then did the same with her nether-regions.

  Once back in the attic, she slipped on the clean shirt, snapped it shut, ripped off her dirty jeans and wriggled into slightly cleaner ones, and then tugged on her Ropers. To top off her cowgirl kit, she added her grandfather’s bolo tie, a small silver horseshoe with an onyx stone set inside. Then, she unzipped the inside pocket of her satchel, removed Nick’s goofy little gun, dropped it back into the jacket pocket where’d she found it, and threw the jacket over her shoulder.

  On the way out the door, she hesitated, dashed back inside, and dropped the jacket on the desk. She unsnapped her shirt, withdrew her new bra from the top drawer, fastened its clasps, twisted it around her torso, bent over, and pulled it up under her breasts. Securing the miracle bra in place, she straightened up again, re-snapped her shirt, grabbed Nick’s jacket, and rushed out of the attic and down the stairs. She needed a miracle.

  Two hours later, Jessica got back to The Blind Faith just in time to catch her breath and open her computer before Nick arrived. Looking up over her rebooting computer, she watched Nick walking towards her across the café. He was wearing black jeans and a black shirt under a black leather jacket. His purple shoes added the only color to his outfit. She dug the sexy undertaker vibe. One lock of wavy chestnut hair hung over his left eye, and when he bent over to kiss her cheek, she fought the urge to brush it behind his ear.

  “Are we going to a funeral?” she said. “Where’s the stiff?”

  “I am,” Nick said. “You’ve shot me through the heart, Jesse James.” His icy blues set her heart galloping, and then his warm smile gave it the spurs. She hadn’t been subjected to such a powerful rush of hormonal adrenaline since her first weeks with Michael. She could barely breath and her skin was on fire, every tiny hair on her entire body standing on end.

  “Dolce, you look lovely, as always, a regular rodeo princess.”

  “I’m not a princess and this isn’t my first rodeo.” Try, second. “I’ll have you know, I was junior barrel racing champion.”

  “Apologies. I’m sure you’re an experienced cowgirl,” he said with a wink as she sat down across from her.

  “As my father always said, if you climb in the saddle, you’d better be ready to ride.” She stared straight into his icy blues.

  “I’ll remember that,” Nick replied, reaching across the table for her hand.

  She pretended to shut down files and packed up the computer she’d just unpacked. When Nick stood up and offered his hand again, she scooted out of the booth, trembling. Instead of taking his hand, she hauled her backpack from the booth, flung it over her shoulder, and held tight to its straps with both hands. Nick lightly pressed his hand on the small of her back as they walked out of the café. Outside, she was greeted by another perfect spring evening, the night air smelling of sweet lilacs and lilies.

  As Nick led her to his car, she tried to stay just a step ahead to avoid the electricity radiating from the palm of his hand touching her back. The tingling sensation was so distracting she couldn’t think straight.

  When Nick pressed a button on his keychain remote, the car started automatically. In the streetlights, she couldn’t tell if the sparkling Porsche Boxster was blue or black, and she wondered if this crazy rich dude had actually bought a new car for their date. It’s not a date. It’s not a date. It’s not a date.

  He opened the door and the smell of luxury leather struck her hard, Nietzsche’s proverbial whip. “When you go to woman, don’t forget your whip.” She laughed to herself.

  “Maybe we should skip the field trip and move straight to the homework,” Nick whispered in her ear as he opened the passenger door.

  The smell of his cologne went to her head and she was tempted to kiss him, but jerked back when she spotted Detective Cormier watching them from across the street. She pushed Nick away, fell into the passenger seat, and slammed the door behind her.

  Between Detective Cormier following them and Nick’s appointment with the art dealer, she was not in any danger of losing her “womanly virtue” as her grandmother would say.

  They were meeting the seller at a restaurant in Skokie. She’d already been to the Russian neighborhood several times with Lolita and loved the colorful vegetable and flower markets and the bakeries filled with powdery Russian pastries.

  As they drove past, she admired St. Simeon Orthodox Church, radiant with its dark red bricks and blue onion domes topped with golden crosses. Several times before, Lolita had taken her inside the ornate building to appreciate the icons and architecture, and her friend also introduced her to Russian and Ukrainian delicacies at Pavlov’s Banquet. Some were tasty and some were just plain weird. Cold beet soup. Meat jelly. Salty fish eggs. Yuck. At least she knew what not to order for dinner.

  Pavlov’s Banquet was just as she remembered it, a boxy brick warehouse spruced up with a bright red ribbon painted across its neon orange and pink facade, making it look like a gaudy Christmas present. A tiny patio jutted off the parking lot, separated from the asphalt by a spindly wrought iron fence and some scraggly plants. Tattered purple paper lanterns hung from a trellis above the anemic courtyard.

  Nick parked near the patio and dashed around the car to open her door before she managed to pry the heavy thing open on her own. This time she let him take her hand, and when he did, she felt like she’d been zapped with a cattle prod. The jolt surprised her and she let out a little gasp. Still holding her hand, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. With her free hand, she opened the front door of Pavlov’s Banquet.

  The hostess led them past a wooden dance floor with red, yellow, and blue lights illuminating it from the rafters. No matter how many times she visited, Jessica was always amused by the heavy burgundy curtains with golden braided cords adorning window scenes painted on every wall, 19th century tableaus of men and women in formal eveningwear and carriages, scenes of old Moscow. This time, she noticed the red curtains clashed with the dirty-carrot colored carpet.

  “Nice place,” Jessica said. “Is this where you bring girls to help them with their homework?”

  “What? You don’t find dusty plastic flowers and Christmas lights romantic?” Nick asked.

  “There’s a red velvet love seat in the backroom,” she said, pointing past the balloon-filled foyer. The cavernous restaurant had lots of secluded spots where lovers could spoon feed each other salo and link arms to do shots of vodka. Lolita loved that combination, raw pork fat and Russo-Baltique Vodka. Maybe in Russia it was considered an aphrodisiac, like oysters in the U.S., or rhino horns in China. She couldn’t stomach the raw fat, so she hoped the vodka might work its magic on its own.

  “Hmm. And have you had many liaisons in Pavlov’s backroom?” Nick asked, raising just one eyebrow. She was impressed. She’d never been able to raise just one eyebrow even though she and Jack practiced by watching Mr. Spock on Star Trek. She remembered the episode where Mr. Spock’s Pon Farr (the urge to mate) nearly drives him mad but there’s not another Vulcan on the Enterprise. She knew how he felt.

  Each section of the humongous dining hall had table settings and chairs with their own patterns and color schemes, making for a festive scene. The hostess led them to a red and blue th
emed table with chairs dressed in blue satin with red sashes tied in bows behind their backs.

  “There’s always a first time,” Nick said.

  “First time what?” she asked, “being in a restaurant where the chairs are better dressed than your date?” She held up the sash on one of the chairs.

  A matching blue tablecloth adorned their table, and a large vase of plastic red roses sat in the middle encircled by gold-rimmed plates nestled like Russian nesting dolls. Each place setting had three crystal wine glasses lined up from tiny to large, the largest a carved red glass sprouting a blue satin napkin. The colors reminded her of a circus and she imagined the waiter bringing out an elephant wearing a colorful headdress.

  A burly man in a somber suit approached the table.

  “Mr. Schilling, Mr. Popov is sorry to keep you waiting.” His serious demeanor and earpiece made her think Secret Service. “He had some business to attend to.” The stone-faced agent waved for a waiter. “Bring our guests something to drink while they wait.” Then the bodyguard disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared.

  “Why don’t you order for both of us since you’ve been here before,” Nick said to Jessica. “Anything but schmaltz herring.” She scanned the menu trying to remember what Lolita always ordered. The weight of the choices and responsibility for ordering made her stomach sink. Tightening her lips in concentration, she scanned the menu. She wasn’t hungry, at least not for food. “I wonder who translated this menu. Listen to this.” She read out loud from the appetizer menu, “Pavlov Blini, assimilates well with a shot of frozen vodka.” They laughed.

  “Perfect. Two shots of frozen Russo-Baltique Vodka and an order of blini,” Nick told the waiter.

  Jessica had just slammed her third shot of frozen courage when Mr. Popov finally showed up.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  When a rotund man wearing a green smoking jacket over a maroon vest the size of a tablecloth paraded through the restaurant with his entourage and stopped right in front of their table, Jessica drooled vodka down her chin. After three shots, she found Mr. Popov amusing, with his foppish comb-over, manicured nails, and rotund belly, and she couldn’t stop giggling.

  “I’m Vladimir Popov.” The fat man extended his hand to Nick.

  “You mean like priest in Russian?” Jessica asked.

  “We’re not in Russia,” Popov said. “Who’s this little girl and why is she here?”

  “My apologies, Mr. Popov,” Nick said. “Let me introduce you.”

  “You should have come alone, Mr. Schilling,” Popov said.

  “Should I go wait in the car?” Jessica asked. Vladimir Popov would have been one scary dude, if he didn’t look like a colorful hot air balloon. Jessica stifled another giggling fit.

  “Tell your girlfriend not to ask so many questions,” the balloon said.

  “I’m not his girlfriend.” When she corrected him, the dirigible glared at her as he put his fat finger to his lips.

  “Shhhh…”

  “Perhaps this is not a good time, I could come back later on my own,” Nick said.

  “You could, could you?” the airship laughed. “No need, my friends. You’re here now, so we might as well get to it.” He heaved himself forward, leaned on the table, and after several attempts, hoisted himself to his feet.

  “Come to my office and we can do business,” Fatty said, motioning for them to follow. Nick took her hand and they trailed behind the fat man until he stopped at an elevator. He reminded Jessica of the character Gutman in The Maltese Falcon. He was even wearing perfume and sporting an embroidered hanky in his breast pocket. She imagined his sidekick Peter Lorre’s Joel waiting for them in the elevator to deliver the black bird.

  Jessica squeezed Nick’s hand as the Zeppelin led them down a dark hallway and into his “office,” a parlor with dizzying floral wallpaper and overbearing chandeliers. For an art dealer, he sure had garish taste. His place was more tired bordello than art gallery.

  On either side of the room, grand mirrors with gold gilded baroque frames reflected her scruffy image into infinity, and now instead of The Maltese Falcon she was in the last scene from The Lady from Shanghai, only with the older, fatter, greaser version of Orson Wells leading the way. Their images blurred together into a fun-house monster, and mesmerized by the mirrors, Jessica ran smack into the wall in front of her.

  Once through the threshold of another musty, dark, cavernous room, Fatty motioned for them to sit down in ornate wooden chairs painted gold. She was afraid to release Nick’s hand, but took a chair anyway, then slid her sweaty palm along her jeans, and sat at attention in case she had to bolt.

  “Would you like something to eat or drink?” the blimp asked. When he snapped his fingers, a diminutive waiter appeared out of nowhere. Maybe he’d been hiding behind the curtains. The fat man said something in Russian and the little man scurried away.

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “I wasn’t asking you, dearie,” he said. “Mr. Schilling, might I offer you something?”

  “No, thank you,” Nick said, his eyes catching fire.

  “I don’t trust a man who doesn’t accept my hospitality, Mr. Schilling.”

  “I don’t trust a man who insults my friends, Mr. Popov,” Nick replied.

  “Mutual distrust, the best way to conduct business.” His balloon belly continued reverberating long after he finished laughing.

  Soon, the waiter returned with a tray of liqueur glasses filled with viscous amber liquor, along with tiny square pastel pastries. He offered them to her first. She looked from Nick to Vladimir, and didn’t know if she was supposed to take something or not. The waiter took a dessert plate rimmed with English roses from a cart and used tongs to place two petit fours on her plate, then he placed the plate and a glass of liqueur on the side table next to her.

  Jessica wished she hadn’t just downed three shots of vodka, especially if she was expected to keep drinking now. Flushed and hot, she unsnapped her shirt part way and fanned herself with her napkin. She wanted water but was too afraid to ask, so she took a sip of the syrupy liqueur. Yuck! She cringed and discretely wiped her tongue off with her napkin.

  When the waiter reappeared with cups of strong tea, she smiled and nodded. As soon as he’d placed her cup on the side-table, she snatched it up and gulped it down. It burned her throat but at least it chased away the treacly taste of the nasty liqueur, and she hoped it would help sober her up. She nodded again as the waiter offered to refill her cup from the silver samovar on the cart.

  Another hulking suit appeared carrying a framed painting, and then leaned it against a chair across from Nick. Straining to see it, she leaned forward in her chair, but Nick was blocking her view.

  “May I?” Nick asked pointing to the painting. When the Gutman-look-alike smiled and nodded, Nick stood up, went to the painting, picked it up, and held it out at arms length. He studied it for several minutes. When he glanced over at her, he was wearing his poker face, and she couldn’t read his eyes.

  “Where did you get this painting, Mr. Popov?” Nick asked. “Can you verify its authenticity?”

  “Where did I get it? Can I verify its authenticity?” the Aerostat repeated, putting down his pastry and glaring up from his plate at Nick. “Of course I can.” He picked up the pastry and popped it into his mouth. “Where did I get it? Can I verify its authenticity?” he mumbled, his mouth full. He shook out his napkin and brushed the crumbs off of his lap, then finished his tea and waved for the waiter to pour him another from the samovar. “An associate in Russia has an extensive art collection and for a reasonable price, he’s willing to part with this Kandinsky.”

  “If your associate wants to sell the painting, why doesn’t he auction it at Sotheby’s or Christie’s? That’s the way it’s usually done. ”

  “Like many people in Russia these days, he prefers a more discrete and private transaction.” He said, dabbing at his thick lips with an embroidered napkin.

  “Jessica, co
me and take a look,” Nick said, gesturing to her with his head. Trying not to make any noise, she carefully sat her plate on the glass side table, then tiptoed over to his chair, watching Fatty out of the corner of her eye. Nick patted the armrest of his chair, and she sat down. He’d sat back down and maneuvered the painting on his lap so she could see it.

  “Darling, did you by chance bring the tiny magnifying tool from the other night?” He gave her a meaningful look. “I may need it later to examine the painting.”

  “Yes,” she said, playing along. “Let me know if you need it.” She would have been calmer if she understood what game they were playing and why. He put his arm around her waist, and his hand was pressing into her (or his) jacket pocket.

  “How much does your friend want for it?” Nick asked. Now he had his hand inside her pocket and was palming the tiny pistol, slipping it out, and sliding it along her back. She sat as rigid as a pole for fear she might knock it out of his hand.

  Jessica didn’t like the odds in whatever game they were playing. She never bluffed in poker and she didn’t know if Nick was bluffing or not. In addition to the Hindenburg and the waiter, three bulls legs were standing nearby waiting for orders. All Nick’s toy pistol could do is give one of the thugs a pierced navel before the others ground him into the paisley carpet.

  “How much are you offering?” the fat man asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Get me a certificate of authenticity and then we’ll talk.”

  “I’ll give you 72 hours to make up your mind, Mr. Schilling.” His round face became a hothouse tomato. “Then I’ll offer it to another buyer.”

  Nick lifted the painting so she could see it. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her mouth fell open, and she brought her hand to her face. Oh My God. She caught her breath to stop herself from gasping.

  Nick narrowed his eyes. “We’d better be going. I’ll get back to you soon, Mr. Popov. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Once outside, Jessica hightailed it to Nick’s car. She must be imagining things again. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed that weasel Alexander pop into Pavlov’s Banquet. But that didn’t make sense. The car started itself from a block away, and she was barely in the passenger’s seat when Nick kicked the accelerator and the Boxster roared onto Gross Point Road. Neither of them said a word until they were on the freeway. When he merged into the center lane, he exhaled loudly, “Whew.”